


Six Bullets Is All It Takes

by red_dragon95 (orphan_account)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: a look into wesley's death, but bite me, from a wesley point of veiw, i love him and he's dead, it's third person, sort of wesley point of view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/red_dragon95





	Six Bullets Is All It Takes

_Ah,_ he looks to the young, cherry-blonde haired girl, _she's awake._

She's gasping for breath, the chemical in her body making her sluggish and unresponsive. Her fingers scrabble at the wood table, trying desperately to get purchase -to get a hold on some part of reality.

Of course, he's as cool as ice. He doesn't care whether she lives or dies, whether she suffers or meets a quick end.

Well, that isn't necessarily true. He is here on business, after all. He needs information before she can die. He needs to make sure that it wasn't just some old lady's ramblings. He needs to make it fact. Then he can go to his employer, and he can decide what to do with her.

Yes, of course, Wesley will give his advice. _A quick death_ , he will say. _Something to get her off our hands._ His advice will be ignored, and he knows this. He always knows. But it's just what he wants. Fisk will be off balance. And while James Wesley cares for his friend, he also wants to watch Karen Page meet an untimely demise.

Wilson Fisk could beat her with his own hands if he wanted. Wesley wouldn't care. As long as she wasn't a problem anymore. She is bad for business.

Wesley doesn't like things that are bad for business.

He's taken off his tie by this point, finding it irritatingly choking in the stuffy warehouse, and has set his coat on another nearby table. It's warm enough in here as it is.

She is sitting up now. Still gasping for breath, yes, but sitting up. It is a good start, in her mind.

It is a good start in his mind as well. No more waiting around.

He is patient in removing his things. _Slow_. He knows she is scared, and he knows how to play off of that frightened doe look she is giving.

He sighs. It's a barely audible noise, one derived from annoyance and disappointment.

Even just the noise sparks something in Karen's veins. She's already in so much trouble, so much _danger_ , that she feels like her heart's pounding out of her chest. But, as soon as that noise leaves his lips, as soon as it escapes into the air, she knows she's as good as dead.

"I thought,"  he says slowly, _deliberately_ , "maybe you weren't coming out of it." He did use a powerful drug, after all. A narcotic, not meant in high doses like this one. "That would have been a shame." His voice is soft -it's always soft, but this time it's different. This time it means death, destruction, not charisma and charm.

Something he does -perhaps its the noise of him setting his coat down, or simply his words are enough- but she lunges upwards; a feeble attempt to escape. She's so overdosed on whatever he's given her that she barely makes it out of her chair before he's got her, a "tut-tut" on his lips.

He's careful with her -too careful. It's deliberate and filthy and vile, and she wants to shudder and shove him off her but she can't.

One arm on her shoulder, the other on her waist, he sets her gently back in the chair.

"You might wanna take a moment."

She's gasping -sobbing, more like- as he speaks. She's scared and frightened and knows entirely what this man does and who he works for. She wants to scream for Matt, for Foggy, for _anybody_   that can help her. She knows the man setting her back in this chair could have her hacked to pieces at a moment's notice.

And oh how he wants to.

He would revel in seeing her smashed to bits. Just like Anatoly, or Vladimir, or Nobu. They all met their untimely demise because they were no longer useful. That happened to be the only thing keeping her alive.

"In the meantime," he continues, with an imperceptible stroke of her hair, "I thought we could chat." He's leaning over her, making sure she's settled, as he says the words, calm as ever. As he stands upright, he gives a little smirk.

_Good girl._

He walks over to the opposite end of the table, where a wooden chair waits, and unbuttons his suit jacket. Even his movements are to deliberately throw her; his calm demeanor, his casual look, the way he doesn't even bother to look at her as he walks away.

He's in control and he knows it. _She knows it_.

As he sits down he gives an exhausted sigh, crossing his legs, as if the day's tired him. And, to be honest, dealing with an angry Fisk and an annoying Leland, before dragging her body _here,_   was exhausting for him. Normally he would ask Francis to do the heavy lifting. Not to say that he couldn't, he was in good shape. But why do it when you can get someone to do it for you?

Besides, this was a personal matter. He knew Ms. Vistain well. Knew how important she was in unbalancing Wilson Fisk. She could very easily be a check mate.

"You can't do this." It's barely more than a whisper -that's all she can really get out. Even just the four words hurt the back of her throat and she nearly sobs again.

"And yet," he opens his hands to gesture at the room around them, "here we are."

She gasps - _sobs_ \- when he says those words. They bring her into a sharp reality that she'd been struggling to put off. She didn't want any of this. She didn't want to be struck down like she was some criminal. But, she supposed, to him, she was a criminal. She was working against him, after all.

"You know, funny story," his words are light, almost meaningless, "after the Union Allied article, I inquired as to whether you would need further attention." The word _attention_ , sounds ominous to her, foreign, almost. "The feeling was you'd already done whatever damage you could, so it wasn't necessary." His eyes are like a snake's; venomous and sharp. "You were a... nobody... a very small cog in the machine." She's crying, now. Tears slipping down her face as she licks her lips and purses them, trying to ignore his jabs. "So, an offer was made through a third party," he continues, ignoring her tears. "A legal agreement, _you_ signed." His tone is accusing now. Harsh. "In exchange for a reasonable amount of money." And just like that his voice is soft again, feather light.

She nods. She nods because she knows what he's talking about. She nods because she knows where he's going and how he's going to get to the point, eventually, where she will die. She doesn't want to die, nobody wants to die, but she's already made her peace with it as he's begun explaining this funny story.

"Well," he smirks, "reasonable for you." He leans forward, his eyes threatening, sharp, and focused. His tone of voice has changed drastically and she knows as soon as he opens his mouth she's a dead woman walking -well, sitting. "You were supposed to go away, Miss Page. Fade back... into wherever people like you fade. But you made a choice," he pauses, letting the words sink in, "and that choice has brought you here. On this night, at this particular moment in time." He leans back again, only the smallest of smirks gracing his otherwise impassive face.

Karen's breathing raggedly at this point. She knows full well what her choices have done. She doesn't need some dickhead telling her what is what. But, she also knows that any wrong spoken word could easily get her a bullet to the chest. And in a heartbeat those choices could be her downfall.

"Perhaps that's the way it was always going to be," he continues, obviously less threatening. "Perhaps we're destined  to follow a path none of us can see, only-" he searches for the right words, the right diction, "-vaguely sense, as it takes our hand, guiding us toward the inevitable."

The inevitable being death, of course. What other option could there be? James Wesley is a man of metaphors and analogies, he knows well of death. He sees it everyday in his line of work. This is nothing new to him.

"Is this supposed to scare me?" Karen finally whispers. She's finally worked up the courage to speak. To say something to this man who does scare her. Who frightens the living shit out of her with his fake smile and kind words.

"No, no." Wesley's response is immediate, practiced. He knows her well enough. He knows _people_ well enough. "Uh, this is."

He pulls a gun from his back pocket.

It's shiny and made of glinting metal that sparkles too harshly in the lamplight. It's venomous and vile, and as Karen watches it be produced, she _gasps_.

He's pointing it at her, nonthreatening -well, as nonthreatening as a loaded gun can get- then sets it down on the table. A small clatter, a quirk of the eyebrows, a twitch of the lips.

Wesley knows the human psyche well.

He's calm. He's collected. He's everything Karen Page isn't and he knows it. He knows how unsettling it can be to see someone so cool while you're a mess. He's experienced it himself. He's learned from it, though. Karen won't have that opportunity.

"Do I have your attention?" Even his words are calm. They're soft and made to make you love him. It's what he is designed for. He could win over Natasha Romanoff if he damn well pleased. It might take a little longer than his usual clientele, but he could do it.

Karen doesn't answer. She's too focused on the gun. Going through a number of possibilities, a number of scenarios as to how this could play out. All she needs is a distraction. One tiny, infinitesimal moment. Then she would have the upper hand.

James Wesley gives a roll of his eyes. _God, pretty blondes really are annoying as fuck._ Then again, anyone who isn't James Wesley or Wilson Fisk or Madame Goa is annoying as fuck to James Wesley. "Hello?" he asks, louder than before, more angered than before. "Could you, like, nod, or something?" Snark is his forte.

Karen looks up at him, startled. When she sees his face she gives an imperceptible nod.

James Wesley takes in a sharp, controlled breath, gives a glance around the room, straightening his suit jacket. Once again, as always, he is everything Karen Page is not; controlled, in charge, unafraid.

He's nonchalant. Unsettlingly so. As he takes his small glance around the room he purses his lips, clearly annoyed with something, someone, who knows. He's James Wesley and he's in control.

"Do you love this city?" His words are measured -graceful, even- everything but conversational. And yet he's acting like they're good friends. Like they're having a chat.

It's all in the psychology of the human brain. He knows people too well. He knows their reactions and impulses and fears. He's been doing this so long now that it's second nature to him.

"What?" It's no more than a whisper.

"It's a simple question. Do you love this city?" His tone is harsher now, cracked.

She shakes her head, disbelieving. Disbelieving because she can't gauge him. Can't gauge whether he's serious or not. Whether he's about to make a move, to distract her, or whether he really is just making conversation.

"I..." She shudders. "I um," she purses and licks her lips; a sign to her nervousness. "I haven't been here long enough."

"Huh," he smirks, that knowing smirk that means everything to him but nothing to everybody else. "I find a few days, a week at most, is ample time to form an emotional response." He smiles. "Growing to love something is really," he pauses, taking a breath, searching for the right words, "simply forgetting slowly what you dislike about it."

Karen is slightly appalled by this description. Perhaps because she knows it's true. Perhaps because he's acting so nonchalant about it. She stares at him, her eyes narrowed, mouth slightly open, cheeks still red from tears. She's still so frightened that she can't believe she's still sitting here, when there's a gun just barely within reach.

"I'll be perfectly honest," he continues, "the situation calls for it, I do not-" he leans forward, "-love this city." His hands tap on the table, as if that's the city itself. Truth be told the dirty, grimy table is a good representation of it, in Wesley's mind. It's filthy and gross and not worth saving. You might as well throw it in the fucking dumpster.

He curls his nose, simply thinking about it repulses him. "The crush of the unwashed garbage stacked on the sidewalk." He gestures rudely. "The air that seems to adhere to your skin." Another gesture to the air surrounding him. "The layer of filth you can never completely wash away." He motions to his arm.

He's so, so, _so_ repulsed by this city he can barely contain his anger at having to be here. But he's on business. Business that pays well with a friend he does truly love. He tolerates it, but only for the business and for _him_. Other wise he would up and move, get out of this filthy city and find someplace else he can rule. He is a king, after all.

Karen's grown stronger by now. More daring. She knows her options and knows her limits. All she needs is _one_ distraction. Something small. Something infinitesimal. She purses her lips and nearly rolls her eyes. "Maybe you should move."

Wesley laughs. An actual laugh that is drawn out of him from the utmost pleasure at seeing her reaction. From seeing her boldness.

_She thinks she's in control. She's got no idea. I would kill her here, now, if it wasn't for Wilson Fisk. I'll leave that pleasure to him._

 "I'm not here because I want to be," he says, matter-of-factly. He's smiling that smile. That smile that means he's annoyed as fuck but he's not willing to show it. He's not willing to let her get the upper hand of him because truth be told she's annoyed him with her comment. She's annoyed him because she thinks she's turned the tables when she hasn't. She's still a dead woman waiting.

"I'm here because I'm _needed_." His tone's turned threatening once again, exterior cracking.

Karen nods, sensing the anger buried deep inside him. "By Fisk?" she dares to ask.

He nods, smallest of smirks on his lips. "He loves this city." He grins, almost. He grins like he's enjoying himself. He loves Fisk and he loves his work, but _God, this city._ "In a way I never could. I don't expect you to understand that." He shakes his head lightly, shrugs his shoulders. "There are moments when even I struggle to, but he does..." He nods, thinking about Fisk. Thinking about the things he's done. Thinking about the things he _wants_ to do. "... very deeply." He pauses. Then-

"Almost, I suspect, as much as he loves his mother."

The words have the desired affect.

Karen pauses. She's turned _rigid_. Her eyes grow wide and they flick over to him, so scared, so frightened, so desperately afraid.

Her breathing has all but stopped, and as she stares at James Wesley, he _smiles_. It's just a flicker, just an instance. He doesn't show it for long, his happiness. He knows she's dead now. She's as alive as Anatoly is. She's nothing but a body without a head. But when she looks at him again, he's _angry_. His eyes burn and burn and _burn_. There's no smile there, now. No flicker of the cheekiness she had thought she'd seen. He's beyond pissed.

The two stare at each other for a long moment. Something passes between them that neither can explain. Other than the acute rage and desperate fear, there's nothing.

"Frankly, I was surprised she remembered  you." He leans over a little, puts his fingers to his lips, hiding his incandescent smile. He doesn't really manage it, and it unnerves Karen when he grins at her. He shakes his head, just a tad, as if imagining a number of different scenarios going on in his head.

All of them end in the death of Karen Page.

"Recent memories for her are fleeting gossamer," he gestures vaguely to the air, his words soft, dark. Then his fingers are back at his lips. "Often plucked from grasp by the slightest breeze, but you-" He nods his head towards her, raises his eyebrows, quirks his lips. "-you left an impression."

Impressions mean death.

Not in most cases, obviously. But Karen knows how dumb she was. How stupid it was of her to do something so incredibly dangerous. But, she also knows it was worth it. If Ben can get the article up, even after she's dead, it'll all be worth it. Wilson Fisk needs to be brought down, by any means necessary.

But, of course Wesley knows this. What does he not know of Karen Page? He could recognize her appearance by simple words spoken by an old woman. He knows how much she loves to pry, to get to the bottom of things. He doesn't want to kill her. Well... he didn't _need_ to, a few weeks ago. Now he does. And now he wants to.

He wants to because she's pried enough. She's mettled enough. She's bad for business and James Wesley can't stand anything that's bad for business.

"The nice blonde lady with the big blue eyes," Wesley goes on, overly arrogant. He nods, mostly to emphasize his words. "And the man you were with. Mr Urich, I'm guessing." He tilts his head, only a small smirk crossing his face. He's got her.

Karen purses her lips again.

Wesley sighs heavily.

He's disappointed in her. She could have just faded. She didn't need to be a problem. But here they were. In an abandoned warehouse with a gun between them.

"My employer-" he cuts himself off, chuckling lightly. "-Sorry, old habits." He knows it unnerves her. He's allowed to make a mistake and she's not. One mistake made by her and she's dead. "Mr Fisk-" He quirks his eyebrows, knowing she's all-too-familiar with his employer's name. "-as I said, loves his mother. He would be _extremely_..." Wesley's jaw visibly tightens. His eyes go dark and his nose curls into a half-snarl. Again, he's searching for the right words, for the right diction. "... _disturbed_ -"

Karen tilts her head. _Past tense_.

"-If he knew you'd found her. Even more so that you've been to see her."

Karen pauses, her mouth half-open. She's running through possibility after possibility after possibility. A flicker of hope has just surged through her, all because of one mistake on James Wesley's part.

Her eyes flicker down to the gun, still lying between them, then back up again. "You haven't told him?"

"He's preoccupied with more important matters," Wesley explains, "so, I've taken it upon myself to address the situation." He's sitting up straight in his chair, hands folded neatly under the table. He's the farthest from the gun he's ever been.

Karen's daring, now. More daring that she's ever been during the entire conversation. She's so close. _So_ close. One moment. One infinitesimal moment. That's all she needs. She licks her lips and _glares_ at the man sitting before her. "If you're going to kill me-" She shakes her head, putting all the sass into the sentence she can muster. "-just do it. _I'm sick of listening to your bullshit_."

Wesley laughs. An honest to God laugh that is pulled out of him by her stupidity.

_She's going to die, anyways. Why not let her have her little moment?_

It's unsettling, that laugh. It's mixed with a quirk of the eyebrows and a nod of the head that only James Wesley can pull off as something truly scary.

"I'm not here to kill you, Miss Page," he explains, a smile still on his face. "I'm here to offer you a job." He licks his lips, his tone has turned from sarcastically jovial to a calculated friendliness.

Karen chuckles. It's soft and light and has the slightest hint of a tremor in it. Despite the new situation slowly developing in her mind, she's still scared as shit. Despite the man's words, he could still shoot her at any time.

She's disbelieving, as well. Of course, she would rather die than take the offer that's handed to her. But her moral conscious is having a hard time fighting off the natural, human instinct to survive at any cost.

"So, after all of this, I'm supposed to what-" She gives a soft smirk and nearly grins at him. She's teetering over the edge. "-be your secretary?"

Wesley gives a sharp intake of breath and smirks. He opens his hands so they're face up and once again he's leaning over the table, leaning towards the gun. "The position I have in mind is a little more..." The right words, the right diction. "...involved." He gives her a smile that is meant to be reassuring, but considering the tone conveyed on the word _involved_ , it's not very reassuring.

"You've proven yourself resourceful," Wesley continues, giving her a slight nod. "Tenacious, with a commendable ability to convince others that your way is the right one." He's speaking quickly now. The words flowing from his mouth smoothly, without hesitation, without pause. "The way that _needs_   to be followed, pursued despite the obvious repercussions such actions may incur."

Such as the action of going to visit Fisk's mother.

Such as the action of pursuing Fisk's downfall, no matter the cost.

Such as all of the actions that have brought her here.

In a warehouse. With a loaded gun and a _very_ angry man.

She scoffs despite all this. The plan is already put in place. It's already in motion. She knows what she has to do. What _needs_ to be done, if she is to survive.

"Is that even English?"

"Ha..." the word is low, dangerous. As if she couldn't piss him off any further.

_What I could do to you in a split second if I chose to do so. I could have you gutted like an animal. Or better yet, I could hand you over to Wilson Fisk. He would beat you to death with his own hands._

Wesley closes his eyes, thinking all these thoughts and more. He's right on that edge, right on that cusp of killing her himself. He doesn't like being talked down to. The Russians did it, and look where they ended up.

"Simply stated," he manages to continue, ignoring her gibe, just barely. "You're going to convince Mr Urich-" He leans forward, threatening now. He pauses, lets the words sink in. Lets the threat become clear. When he speaks again, his voice is but a whisper. "-that everything is fine." He shakes his head, his brow is furrowed and his eyes are dark and he's right on the edge, right on the cusp.

And she knows it.

"That you were wrong," he continues, his voice still luridly soft. "That Wilson Fisk _is_ a good man." He nods his head. He believes it himself. He's not good in the most conventional terms, but to James Wesley, Wilson Fisk _is_ a good man. "A man this city needs."

Wesley's eyes are still as dark as Hell. His voice is still as soft as midnight. His movements are still as calm as the sea.

"And then you're going to spread the gospel to everyone you've _infected_   with your negative point of view."

Karen's glaring at him. She's so far over the edge that all she can see is red. She's ready to do what needs to be done. All she needs is one moment. One infinitesimal moment. Then she's gone.

 _"I would rather die first."_ It's said as softly as Wesley's own words. She's trying to throw him. To outmaneuver him in this game of wits. In this game of psychology.

She smiles at the end of her sentence, clearly thinking she's won. Clearly thinking that she's got the upper hand. What use is an interrogation if the victim won't talk?

Wesley's not having it. He's already got his pieces in place. He knows what she will say and he knows what she will do. He's ready for her.

He looks genuinely confused. His brow furrows and his head tilts and his eyes go _dark_.

"But you won't be the first to die, Miss Page, no. No, I think Mr Urich will have that honor." He nods. He knows his words will come true, one way or the other. Karen Page will have nothing to live for after these moments. "Then we'll go to your place of employment, see to Mr Nelson, Mr Murdock. After that, your friends, family, everyone you've ever cared about." He's speaking quickly now, in a matter-of-fact manner that hints at truth. "And when you have no tears left to shed, then-" He pauses, shaking his head and seeming genuinely distraught for the young woman in front of him. "-then we'll come for you, Miss Page."

Karen swallows. She's suddenly very aware of how this night could end. She's actually considering taking the job -or maybe simply grabbing the gun and shooting herself in the head- when a phone rings, loud and clear.

It's a natural reaction. Years and years of working with Wilson Fisk and Leland Owlsley and answering that damn phone as soon as it rings. It's a natural instinct as he turns his head, looking towards his pocket, at the device that's just effectively killed him.

It's the infinitesimal moment Karen has been waiting for.

She's quick, quicker than he would have thought. And by the time he looks back up she's snatched the gun off the table and is pointing it at him, arms tight and teeth bared.

The phone continues ringing, unanswered.

Karen's gasping -perhaps from exertion or maybe from the knowledge of what she's about to do- and as she glares at the man on the other side of the barrel, she steels her nerves.

Wesley _smiles_.

It's not a big smile; it's a small, self-assured smirk that means he still has all the cards.

Truth be told he's frightened. Only a little. But frightened nonetheless.

He doesn't show it, of course. James Wesley is a master of manipulation and can hide his emotions better than anyone. He still has the upper hand. She's never shot someone. She won't pull the trigger. It takes guts to shoot an unarmed man, and she's got none.

The phone is still ringing.

He hums a short note, then-

"Do you really think I would put a _loaded_ gun on the table where you could reach it?"

 Yes she does.

She tilts her head, teeth gritted. "I don't know-" she pulls down the hammer "-do you really think this is the first time I've shot someone?"

He chuckles. It's small and very, very quiet. But it's a self-assured chuckle. He still thinks he has all the cards. Still thinks that he's got the winning hand.

A smirk stretches itself across his face.

Ringing. Ringing.

Then his brow furrows for a moment and he looks down, reaching up to fiddle with his glasses: the only sign of how truly nervous he his.

He sighs minutely, then places his hands on the table, pushes out his chair, and begins rising to his feet.

"Miss Page-"

 A gunshot.

Wesley staggers backwards from the shear force of the bullet. It hits his right shoulder and he stumbles back into the wooden chair with a thud. It's a flesh wound, capable of being easily healed, but painful nonetheless.

He stares down at the bullet hole with contempt in his eyes. With anger and disbelief and outrage. He's furious.

His rage only lasts a second.

Another two bullets are fired and go right into his heart.

Karen's gritting her teeth, adrenaline and uncertainty and fear fueling her.

Another three in quick succession.

Wesley is slumped back in his chair, seemingly lifeless. His hands drape downwards, reaching for nothing but air. His head is leaning at an odd angle and his whole body goes slack.

Karen simply stares at him for several, long seconds. The gun is still pointed his direction, now empty. Her finger still rests against the trigger and her hands are still locked tight around the grip.

She's frightened. More frightened than she was at the start of this whole thing.

Back then, those few minutes ago, when she was waking up from a drug-induced stupor, she knew what she was capable of. Now, with a gun in her hand and a dead man sitting before her, she doesn't know anything.

_I just shot someone._

_Multiple times._

Everything about law and everything about order did not prepare her for this. She's unsure of whether the sun will come up in the west or come up in the east. Whether it will fall towards China or fall towards England. Whether she is a good person or a bad one.

Her whole world has tilted in those six simple shots. Everything is off. Nothing is the same.

She breaks from her frozen stance and the gun practically falls from her finger tips, landing on the wooden table with a thud. She gasps and puts a hand to her mouth, sobbing by this point.

The only sound in the room is her laboured breaths.

She takes another few seconds before turning around, as if looking - _checking_ \- to make sure that nobody is watching.

The phone rings again.

She whips back towards James Wesley.

The noise of the ringing phone is oddly loud. It rises above everything; her adrenaline, her uncertainty, her fear. It calls her back from that dark place in her mind and forces her to think.

She stares down at the gun lying uselessly on the table. It's silver metal holds a new, terrifying glint in it. Something darker than before. Something worse.

The phone is still ringing.

Her hands hesitate over it before snatching it up once again. She pulls her shirt sleeve up above her wrist and quickly wipes down the table with it.

_No fingerprints._

She leans over and grabs her purse, nearly falling out of the chair in her haste. The drug is still in her system, she can tell. It's dilapidated her movements and her motor skills. And she has a feeling that something's gone wrong in the decision-making part of her brain.

How else could she bring herself to shoot someone?

With one final look back, she runs from the scene, taking the gun and her purse with her and leaving a dead James Wesley behind.

The phone still rings.


End file.
